Love Softball? Diamonds Are Forever

There is this B-movie about softball. It came out sometime after people stopped wearing flowers on their pants and sometime before they started wearing flowers on their neckties.

This movie, titled "Squeeze Play," is about a group of socially deviant men who define their lives on the softball diamond. (At least, this is the main plot.) These men abandon screaming bosses and wives and children to get to the field on time. The women characters rebel. They organize their own team, put on short-shorts and then go out and beat the guys in a climactic game spiced with knuckleheadedness and hijinx.

Gabe Kaplan may or may not have been in "Squeeze Play."

This movie did not win an Oscar.

But, here again, life imitates ... well, this movie. There is a certain, undeniable national passion for softball. Forty million Americans play it competitively -- about 27 million men and 13 million women. This makes softball the most popular team sport in the country, according to the Amateur Softball Association, the governing body for the sport.

In the last decade, almost 4 million new players have picked up a glove. Here in Connecticut, nearly every town has at least one league. Manchester, for instance, runs nine men's leagues (with 72 teams) and a women's league (eight teams). On the other side of the river, West Hartford rents its fields out to eight leagues and 64 teams.

Men with wives and children play softball. Women with husbands and children play softball. Single men and women play softball, sometimes on the same co-ed team. In this latter case, the sports phrase "team chemistry" can take on wholly different properties.

During this time of the year, early spring, there are teams and leagues forming near you. Just ask a friend. There are fast-pitch leagues, where the pitcher fires the ball underhand in windmill fashion. There are modified leagues, where the pitcher can throw hard -- but can't windmill. And there are slow-pitch leagues, the most popular of all. Slow-pitch is an offensive game. The pitcher lobs the ball up to the plate as if to say, "Go ahead, crush this one. We're ready."

Men with malt-laden midsections can play slow-pitch. I am one

of these.

Slow-pitch leagues are divided into categories by skill. Elite leagues are called "A" leagues, the more competitive leagues are called "B" leagues and the recreational leagues are "C" and "D" leagues.

I play in a "C" league with others of similar background. Many of us played baseball, in the sandlots, in Little League, maybe even in high school or college. Many of us feel softball doesn't come close to matching the charm and sophistication of the true national pastime. But it's hard to get up a game of baseball.

We do not jog. So, as our skills have deteriorated, as our malt-laden midsections have expanded, we have been left with softball. Once a week or so, we put on stupid uniforms and the old game-face. Winning is still winning.

Three years ago, one of my teammates bruised three ribs, cracked his sternum and partially separated his shoulder while sliding into home plate. He was called out. When he tried to get up to argue, he passed out.

I was in the on-deck circle. I thought he was safe.

Last year, another of my teammates was sprinting back to snag a deep drive. One of the other outfielders said, "Lotta room," so Bob kept sprinting toward the warning track -- and then virtually impaled himself on the cyclone fence. He had a gash in his head and his leg was stuck under the fence, but he made the catch. He flipped the ball to me and said, "Throw it in."

After he unstuck his leg, he managed to walk off the field without assistance. He would wind up with a slight concussion and 10 stitches. As he sat on the bench, waiting for the ambulance, my teammate said, "Did I drop it?"

Isn't that beautiful? For the most part, these violent collisions and injuries are rare in softball. It is uncommon, even, to be taken out at second base while turning a double-play. But it does happen. One of my old mates had the No. 8 on the back of his uniform impressed in the infield dirt after being taken out. He needed about an hour to catch his breath.

At most, one can expect a pulled muscle here or there and, maybe, a thrown-out arm. The price is well worth the competition and the old feelings that can be regenerated.

Throwing a guy out at third is entirely satisfying. Lacing a line drive up the middle leaves a unique, tingly feeling in the hands. Crushing one over the fence must be an amazing high, although I myself don't know much about this.

Afterward, there are a few icy cold ... seltzers, maybe. And some frivolous reflections on a silly game. It's all a rather enjoyable respite from the real world